


The Plan I've Devised For Your London-Sky Eyes

by SG39



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Frottage, Gentle Morning Lovemaking with a Sick Twist, John is a Bit Not Good, M/M, Mentions of Unusual Sexual Practices and Fantasies, Non-Con if you Consider Everything..., Or at least Good for John, Richard Brooke is Innocent, Shameless Smut, Sherlock is Spectacularly Ignorant in a Good Way, Torture Fetish, except not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:04:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SG39/pseuds/SG39
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Richard Brooke was a lie, but what about John Watson? An AU in which those ten seconds at the pool when Sherlock considered the Absolute Impossibility that John Watson might be Moriarty... were the closest he ever got to the truth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Plan I've Devised For Your London-Sky Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> This work brought to you by the brilliant and endlessly witty beta Snowdazed. My first work with any betareading! Huzzah.
> 
> If you're uncomfortable with gore... there isn't any here, but it's definitely talked about a bit.

Often, the mornings after he plunders Sherlock’s body are just as exciting as the nights before. Sore muscles come to life with the admittance of light through windows, and the usual tingling boneless feeling in his arm, and also a mop of unruly dark-chocolate curls tickling his nose notify him that his little detective had spent the remainder of the night upstairs in his bunk, and had subsequently used his arm as a pillow. On this _particular_ morning, near-undetectable puffs of sleep-breath whispered against his good shoulder, and a subtle shift in positioning betrayed that Sherlock’s body was bare, save for silk boxers. This morning was especially satisfying, as he had managed to wake up before his young friend, as the show the man put on when he woke was nothing short of extraordinary.

 

The few occasions the ‘doctor’ was gifted the opportunity to observe his beast coming out from sleep, he could only remember as a quiet storm curled up in his arms. Sherlock would invariably wake in the midst of REM sleep, and always in a fit of panic that the older man could deduce from the sharp intake of breath and the intensity of emotion apparent from fluttering lashes and furrowed brows. Nightmares, of course. Then, as the super sleuth would come into a more solid state of awareness, in rapid-fire succession those eyes registered the first neural impulses of the day. Emotions panic-recognition-rationalization-relief-comfort-physical discomfort-situational assessment-embarrassment-guilt- self analyzation-self loathing-self-doubt-insecurity-depression- pain-thankfulness-love-love-desperation.

 

The fact that Sherlock had fallen to this – a sniveling love-struck schoolboy with a guilty conscience for wishing on his love a life of suffering at his side - was proof of not only the man’s rapidly expanding emotional range, but of an ingrained social gullibility and inexperience – all gleaned from a lifetime of crushing social disappointment. Thanks to that though, Sherlock was pure. Innocent. Soon, he would be Perfect, but for now he was a child in his arms. That youthful vulnerability almost made him hard again.

 

In fact it did.

 

Well no sense in wasting a perfectly healthy erection - especially at his age.

 

John Watson – that was the name which, after months and years of planning, he had selected. It struck him as something ordinary, but not overly so. Not obviously ordinary – stretched a few kinks out of his creaky old back and rolled over to lovingly pin the beautiful man beside him beneath his weight. Inwardly cackling, but outwardly smiling in the way An Ordinary Man in Love would, he hummed contentedly into Sherlock Holmes’ forehead as a good-morning kiss (he could almost hear Sherlock’s heart skip that sleepy beat) before he gathered two pale, lanky arms into a grip against the headboard, and started to work on the thick and deliciously milky neck beneath him. Sherlock bristled, startled and obviously not in the mood, but didn’t move to refuse the advances. Didn’t? Wouldn’t? Wouldn’t. He wouldn’t refuse. Not now. Not ever.

 

He was too afraid of what saying no might do. Of what being in love meant.

 

That pale skin had already been decorated with a peppering of kiss-marks from John’s eagerness the night before - Sherlock’s erogenous zones were numerous, but the neck held a certain allure -  but there was no sense in leaving white spaces on a perfectly good canvas. He nipped, suckling sensitive flesh into his mouth lightly and running the entire length of his tongue over it, then moving on and repeating the gentle pattern in another spot. If he were being honest, he would have preferred to bite, rip, tear, make him bleed, make him scream, make him cry, but it wasn’t something that Doctor Watson would do to his sensitive partner?-flatmate?-friend-with-benefits?-lover?-partner?. If there was anything tiresome about the facade, it was that he had to mime John’s sexuality crisis and gentlemanly nature. Nevertheless, whilst continuing the almost-innocent ministrations and leaving sweet little pink marks all the way down the trail of his mouth, John considered a day in the far-off future (after he’d gotten around to finishing the Dungeon he was building to eventually house his brilliant little pet) to be dedicated to sucking and gnawing painful (and bloody? possible) red marks into every square centimeter of skin on Sherlock’s beautiful, broken-to-be body. He shivered at the thought of a battered and betrayed Sherlock in full-body chains, and dug his now-stone-hard cock into the arcing hips below while Sherlock moaned encouragingly, the younger man’s prominent (and yet-virgin) length hardening to match. John hadn’t let Sherlock fuck him yet.

 

He’d save that for a special occasion. Some sort of trust-building exercise. Maybe a reward after Sherlock admitted he loved him verbally, or asked to establish the terms of their relationship.

 

Smirking to himself (this was almost too easy) he supported all his weight with the hand pinning Sherlock’s limbs above his head, and let the other one stray all over the twitching, hot, welcoming body. Calloused hands discovered and explored the plush skin of Sherlock’s curves and cliffs, pressing hard when passing over pressure points and raking his nails over exposed skin, all whilst rocking their clothed erections against each other at a gentle tempo.

 

Multitasking. Easy. Sherlock’s dizzy, unfocused eyes. Delectable.

 

Regrettably, he had been a bit too rough with Sherlock last night, so Good Doctor John wouldn’t be able to allow himself to ravage that greedy little hole for another 24-48 hours. Had to take into consideration the inevitable anal tearing of the previous session. How sweet, you saintly thing John Watson you.

 

“John Please,” the saint’s little imp crooned, all knit brows and cherry bow lips. He was getting into it, as John could tell from the his arousal-flushed skin, curled toes, and the possibly-more-obvious wrapping of long, muscular legs around hips. Encouraging. Physically pleading. He wanted John to fuck him (too. cute.) and the older sociopath could definitely feel his resolve weaken, but no no no, tut tut naughty boy. Can’t indulge too heavily. Can’t break you in too quickly. Can’t let you discover the madman just yet.

 

Still though, John could feel the pliant body tightening and grinding up into him desperately in rhythm with his own thrusts, their groins bathed in movement and friction and heat. It was like they were melting into one another from this one fixed point in the universe, joining at the hips, trying to thrust and rub and moan and crash into a state of singularity just for even one single second. With stormy London-Sky eyes screaming up at him, crying out with helpless all-encompassing need (“John, I-“) John laughed to himself psychotically – Sherlock was trying to ward off the oncoming orgasm (out of the question, John liked his orgasms too much). Either that or he was trying to hold in the profession of his love that he’d held on the tip of his tongue since The Pool. ‘John’ took pity - don’t think now dear Sherlock I need your brainpower for later today - and cut him off with a savage kiss, crashing his teeth over bruised lips and (indulging himself a little) growling a little as Sherlock screamed into his mouth, shuddering violently and wet ejaculate flooding the inside of his boxers. Hurriedly, John pushed his own down and beat himself off furiously, imagining he was fucking him. He thought about fucking his mouth, buggering his shuddering spasming ass while he begged for it. He imagined his hand was a bloody fuck-hole he’d carved into Sherlock’s chest, and could feel his cock disappear into Sherlock’s heart, raping the vital organ with manic finality as signs of life sputtered off into stillness. Sherlock’s bruised and battered post-coital expression combined with the fantasy of fucking the man in the most reverent way was just intense enough to push John off into a proper orgasm, ah fuck fuck fuck. To reward to his unknowingly obedient pet, John let out a thin stream of seed over Sherlock’s sweat-sleek torso.

 

Take a second.

 

Breathe in.

 

Breathe out.

 

It took a lot of willpower, even after all this time, to not strangle somebody immediately when he came. He intensely missed the convulsions of a dying man massaging his cock, pulling the last droplets of semen from his balls. Sometimes he even liked stabbing them after, to feel them wilt and go limp while impaled on his own softening member.

 

But he had to be careful not to kill Sherlock - it was a waste to throw away a toy this valuable. Sherlock was to be the prize in his collection. Better than little Richard. Much better than obsessive Kitty. Even better than loyal Sebastian. Sherlock was the goal. Sherlock was the endgame.

 

His endgame.

 

This was probably the closest to love that either of them would ever get, if John had anything to say on the matter. Sherlock should consider himself lucky – their feelings were mutual.    

 

John cackled gleefully in his head as he arranged his body into a warm fold to cradle his beast in. Along with the plateau of his heart-rate (usually brought on by orgasm, exercise, and occasionally by violence and the unique bouts of intellect to which Sherlock was prone) came the usual cocktail of adrenaline, endorphins, and glorious oxytocin. He could practically feel his eyes focus and unfocus as he came down from the high, ears buzzing, hands holding Sherlock flush against him. He never wanted to let go, but eventually surrendered and released Sherlock to the pull of life outside the bedroom.

 

They get out from their next, and Sherlock resumed his usual activities. On today’s list, apparently, was an experiment that took up the entirety of their little kitchen table. The previous night’s clutter had disappeared in the short time John had taken in the shower (Where to? Probably the floor). It had him watching twenty of the most commonly worn watches in London simultaneously. The knowledge to be gained was useful in a very specific set of circumstances, and it was just the kind of thing John loved that Sherlock paid actual attention to. John hadn’t done this particular comparison in several years, and he was sure he was behind on the times technology-wise already. It was interesting to think that the rise in wristwatch sophistication would create more universally accurate time-telling, but perhaps the influx of Chinese and Indonesian hardware would lower the quality? Riveting. Adorable.

 

Well he wouldn’t be acting boring for long. One of John’s threads was scheduled to surface today. Nice locked room murder. Easy to solve, as long as Sherlock put the layers of detail in the right order.

 

Which he wouldn’t.

 

At least not for a minimum of 24 hours - just enough time for Miss Emilie Thompson to make it to the airport with her trivial spoils. Otherwise Sherlock will have to track her to the Ukraine. He hadn’t added an airport chase scene to their adventures yet – his little pet was sure to enjoy it, but as usual he’d have to earn it first.

 

Poor Sherlock. He’d probably be rotting in some gutter, bored, unknown and completely wasted, if not for John’s support over the years. Sherlock was likely to be the longest project John would ever keep up, and certainly he would turn out to be the best.

 

Sherlock met John through Carl Powers when they were just children, though neither of them knew it. Then, they met again it in their mid-twenties (whilst John had been personally transporting some choice merchandise across the pond). A bright eyed criminal mastermind to-be happened upon young Sherlock Holmes, a recent college dropout trying to find purchase and purpose in a cold world, and the chemistry was instant. Back then his name was actually JimMoriarty (or at least that was what he was going by), so he kept the name in a lockbox and eventually handed it off to little Richard for The Game.

 

Connectivity. Sentiment. Maybe that was his version of Romance - it had been their anniversary. Jim and Sherlock forever, but that was the mantra before he took the life of John Watson.

 

Figuratively? Literally? Make a deduction.  

 

Sherlock had been trying to get his fingers into the gritty real-world of Criminology 101; gang wars, serial killings… Lord knew the Americas had plenty of that sort of thing. It kept him busy, but it also made him dirty. Drugs were so easy to come by in Florida.

 

Then.

 

Like magic.

 

Like fate (because it was fate, really).

 

In the middle of his journey in self-schooling (and/or self-medicating), Sherlock stumbled onto one of Jim’s first threads, and shut it down. Through grocery store security camera footage, Jim watched Sherlock work his magic through the turns of his primitive maze... and finally there was somebody else. Somebody like him.They could achieve so much together. All his life, Sherlock’s potential  he’d probably been wasted on idiots, just like John, but Sherlock had such a great need for grooming. Nurturing. An Audience. A Villain.

 

Just like John needed A Hero.

 

The fun bit was aligning the stars, but the same can’t be said for the waiting. Simultaneously getting Sherlock arrested and deported from the United States, pointing Mycroft’s attention toward the younger Holmes’ rehabilitation, ensuring the gradual promotion of a tolerant and self-hating officer at the yard, keeping an eye on dear old Mrs. Hudson and chasing out her tenants before they got too attached to the only place in the world Sherlock would be happy living, while also expanding and managing every detail of his own international crime syndicate thank you very much took the better part of ten years.

 

Well.

 

Looking at Sherlock now, curled up in a burgundy dressing gown playing with his watches at the kitchen table, it was undoubtedly worth it. Without the time and resources and his own feather-light spider’s touch, John had no small amount of doubt that Sherlock would have jumped off a building of his own accord.

 

Suddenly, the subject in question shifted his own gaze from his watchfaces to face John and watch him. That scrutinizing lowered eyelid meant... he was calculating. Deducing. Sherlock didn’t often deduce John for, mostly because he felt he didn’t needto. He felt confident in John to be ordinary and loyal at all times of day and night, and So Often was Sherlock ignorant of Ordinary Man John Watson’s needs and thoughts and feelings that you’d think he didn’t care about the man, but it was rather the opposite. Because Sherlock had found somebody he cared for so much, he’d learned to trust,

 

That was a mistake. But dear Sherlock wouldn’t know that for another three years. John gestured to the watches with a smart incline of his brow, “You have enough time for some breakfast?”, and moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Puns. Sherlock had a hateful relationship with the pointlessness of puns, so he made them as often as he cared to. Sherlock responded by wordlessly turning back to his experiment, annoyed.

 

He reached out to put the kettle on, but saw out of its reflective surface that Sherlock was staring at him again. Odd.

 

“Yes?“ John had to feign nervousness at having Sherlock’s interest. The truth was that the attention made him giddy. He straightened his posture and planted his feet while he filled the receptacle with water, to make it seem as if John Watson were preparing his body for impact.

 

Surprisingly, the impact came.

 

As if he were walking through heavy resistance - water, wind, something viscosus Sherlock made his way from the table to to the stove slowly, and wrapped his arms around John’s middle section.

 

They hadn’t touched outside their bedrooms before. They hadn’t talked about this yet. Was it time?  

 

Sherlock tucked his mess of a head down into the crook of John’s neck, “Spend the rest of your life with me”. Not a request - a demand.

 

John huffed as flipped the stove on, and the fire came to life. Orange and blue. Controlled chaos. He felt a grin spread across his lips.

 

“I was planning on it”.


End file.
